


tear the saint limb from limb

by snagov



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Angst and Porn, Anonymous Sex, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Desire, Dirty Talk, Floor Sex, Glory Hole, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Religious Guilt, Sex Crying, Shame, incredibly handwaved mechanics of finding a private place on a ship, john irving's shamefully thick dick, when you know it's a bad idea and do it anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:56:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27645817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snagov/pseuds/snagov
Summary: He shouldn't be here.
Relationships: Lt John Irving/Sgt Solomon Tozer
Comments: 21
Kudos: 72





	tear the saint limb from limb

**Author's Note:**

> tbh this is just a lot of filth

_"Forgetting himself for a moment, Francis brought his hand out from under his frock_  
_in order to bless the multitude. When the people saw his wound they bellowed madly._  
_The women dashed forward with mantles outstretched to catch the drops;_  
_the men thrust in their hands and anointed their faces with blood. The villagers'_  
_expressions grew savage, and so did their souls. They longed to be able to_  
_tear the Saint limb from limb in order for each of them to claim a mouthful of his flesh,_  
_for they wanted to make him their own, to have him enter them so that they could become_  
_one with a saint—could be sanctified. Blind rage had overpowered them;_  
_their eyes were leaden, their lips ringed with froth."_  
\- Nikos Kazantzakis, Saint Francis

* * *

  
  


The boatswain calls _all well._ Two bells and as dark as pitch. John crouches behind a barrel, keeping his body in the shadows, letting the Marine patrol sweep by. 

He shouldn’t be here. 

There is a place no one talks about. Well, not in polite company at least. The rumors are hisses in dark corners of the orlop, whispered into ears in the engine room, scrawled on a scrap of paper and tucked into a coat pocket. Secret knowledge of a secret place. 

When John Irving was a boy, young still with knobby knees and hands too big for his body, he had been under the tutelage of a schoolteacher with an interest in early Christian history. It had seemed surreal, trifling on the very verge of temptation, to hear that the church had been born in politics. He had felt no small measure of disappointment when he had learnt that the books of the Bible were selected and voted upon instead of having been delivered already leatherbound, in a perfect and whole form. To John, aged nine, a good Christian man meant a good Protestant creature; he understood the Catholic system only vaguely, in as much as he ever needed to. Still more bewildering was that eastern and Orthodox church, which he did _not_ truly understand the distinction of, save that both Catholic and Orthodox beliefs were entirely equal in his viewpoint: that is, incorrect. He had never accounted for a Christianity outside of these three churches and, when his tutor spoke of the Gnostics and other heresies, John was bewildered. 

“But the Bible tells us this.”

“They believed in some of the Bible, and they believed in other writings of their own as well.”

So then, here he had found his own secret gospel whispered into his ear, a temptation along the garden path to God above. Someone had spoken of a bulkhead between the pantry and the gunroom where a man might find a single, unassuming hole and slide their cock through.

Was it the gunroom side or the pantry side? John frowns, fairly certain it was the pantry side he had wanted. Even this, trying to find some furtive relief anonymously through a wall, is too much; he can’t stomach dropping to his knees and licking his lips, the saliva pooling in his mouth, holding his mouth wide open until his jaw ached - no. Absolutely not. He glances again about the room. Empty. His dick is already twitching in his trousers, the plump head swollen and leaking into his linen and wool. 

There’s a knock on the other side. John hesitates and then slowly, gingerly knocks back. Marco and a Polo, question and answer. Someone is waiting for him on the other side, waiting to feel his painfully hard dick slide through and press against their tongue. He fumbles at his flies with clumsy hands, heart beating a wild staccato rhythm in his chest. A rustle draws his attention and he pauses, hand on himself, to look back at the wall. 

There it is. A cock. 

John stares at the proud red beast, jutting defiantly from the wall, curving upward as if reaching for him. His palms sweat. His own cock twitches. Just waiting for him to put his own spit-slick lips around and suck it down to the root. A dark, hot wildness scrambles in his blood. 

When he sinks to his knees, it’s with his palm pressed to his own dick, telling himself it’s a service, that he will not take pleasure himself. When he opens his mouth and takes the cock in himself, rubbing his wet tongue along the underside, he swears he will never do this again. Just this once, this foolish transgression. Just this once. The man spills. John isn’t surprised by the taste, he had licked his own off of his palm once, cheeks flaming, shamed for his curiosity. Salt and bitterness, just as something so foul should be. 

Then, there’s an empty hole in the wall. A hand appears, one finger crooked and beckoning. Inviting him to share in kind, to press his own hips against the wall. His trousers around his ankles and thick cock dripping, John hesitates. But there’s the taste of semen on his lips and one sin is as good as another. He might beg forgiveness for all of it then. 

He flushes dark red as he shifts his heavy, come-filled balls, sore and aching with the need to spill, and finally slides his dick through the opening. For a moment, terror wracks him. Who is it? Will they unmask him? Attack him? Slice him down at the root with a knife? In the end, it’s nearly as awful, as the mouth that swallows him is hot and wet. Teeth gently scrape at the bulbous head of his cock, teasing that sensitive underside, and John moans. The mouth sucks harder to shut him up and John presses his heaving chest to the wall, hands splayed out either side of himself. 

What would it be like to be invaded? Here, something wet and soft and hot fucking itself, soft and sloppy on his dick, pulling the climax from him by force. John does nothing, standing there with his dick shoved foolishly through a hole in the wall, having the come milked from him. Still, what might it be like to be used further? He clenches around nothing, one hand slipping along his crease, finding himself tense and hot there in the center. God, to have a cunt, to be fucked as God intended. He would be a good wife, he tells himself, submitting to every whim of the cock that needed him. It would be Godly then. Christian. To spread his legs and take this beast into him, fat and thick, to end his night soaked and leaking with white, viscous come. But instead, he’s got this wretched thing hot and quick between his legs, perking up at the slightest wind, the merest brush of fabric or palm. 

God above, his mind begs, and he spills white-hot into the wet, waiting mouth. The unknown man drinks it down, swallowing and pulsing around him; John twitches at the movement against his overstimulated cock. He jerks to move away and feels sharp teeth scrape against the base of his dick, telling him to stay put. The tongue returns to the head, licking at the most sensitive places and it aches. It hurts, over-sensitive and far too much. John breathes hard and desperate, wanting to pull away. Terrified. His face is wet. Is he crying? (He is sobbing.) 

He’s still hard. Hard and painfully stimulated, twitching uselessly against the wall while the tongue drags against his hot flesh over and over and over again. Hot, wet suction returns. God, how can he do anything but fuck into it? It feels like sin, as delicious as sugar and sin alike. His arse aches. His balls ache, heavy and hot. Swollen and painful between his thighs, it feels as if he has gallons of come stored up. He needs to come, to let it free, and he might come forever. He has an image of being tied here, his dick jutting obscenely through the hole, there for any mouth to suck, for anybody to sink upon. There to be used and milked like the good prize stud he is; not one of God’s elect, just a viciously red cock like any brainless, rutting thing. 

The tongue flattens and runs up the underside of his cockhead; Irving comes with a sob and the world goes dark.   
  


* * *

He wakes to a hand between his legs, working him over, getting his dick good and fat again. His trousers are still around his ankles; he feels hot with shame and foolish.

“Is this what happens when you never let yourself come, you’re just ready to go whenever someone touches you? Not so much satisfaction in watercolors, eh?” 

That sturdy voice, hot-blooded and strong. John’s eyes roll back in his head, seeing only rifles and the red wool of the Marines. Tozer. It must be Tozer. (His eyes closed, he can see only the blackness of his own skull and there, the memory of broad shoulders shifting beneath fabric, the outline of thick legs like masts, all thighs and calves and a feast for the imagination.) 

“You love this, don’t you?” Tozer mutters. His hand is chapped and coarse and John is half-blind with need, bucking into it, loving the gentle pain of sandpaper palms against his skin. There’s a punishment in this, the scrape of pain, and he craves it. 

“Yes,” John whispers. His face is still wet. 

“You want more then?” 

Hesitation. God is watching. God is always watching. But if God is always watching, then he’s seen how John has already fallen, come stumbling into perdition. The saints do not stumble, so he is not a saint, he is not one of God’s elect, all that waits for him is the burning rack and the endless fire of the damned deep; he might as well have this pleasure, yes, just this once. Then he can scrub himself raw and pray and pray and pray and - 

“Yes,” he confesses. 

“Good,” Tozer says, patting him on the thigh, “God, look at you. You’re a filthy mess.” His wide hands run higher, brushing up against his twitching cock, rolling his balls in that coarse palm, sinking one grimy, filthy finger into him. Right to the knuckle, lubricated only by his own come. John shivers and starts. “You want me to fuck you, don’t you? You want my big fat dick up in you, plugging you up, till you can’t go anywhere cause you’re just so full of me, like a fish on a hook, don’t you now?” 

John whimpers. Visions of minutes earlier, his desperate, guilty need to be spread-eagle and fucked open, flash to the surface. His cock flushes with blood, impossibly hard, betraying him once again. 

“Good Lord,” he begs of no one in particular. 

“Oh, well, look at you," Tozer mutters. His hand runs along John's jaw, his thumb along his lip, pushing into his mouth. "Someone sure likes that.” All the while, working at him, pushing a second finger in, then a third. John wildly imagines himself stretching to accommodate all of Tozer’s fist, then his thick forearm, swallowing him up whole. The intrusion isn’t pleasurable but the idea of being taken apart and spitted on living flesh prickles his hot skin until he has gooseflesh all over. Tozer presses in on a place deep within him and it’s hot and strange, twisting his insides with pleasure; not enough to make him come, not like where Tozer's other hand has dropped to work slowly at his defiled cock, but an ambient heat spills from his belly and races up his spine. 

Tozer is crouching over him, his own prick swinging hot and heavy between his thick thighs, ominous and punishing. God, how he wants it. His mouth still tastes like come. 

“Please, please, please, pl-” He shoves a fist in his mouth before he can debase himself with begging more. Tozer cracks a wicked, wild grin and shifts over him, pressing the spongey, full head up against John and pressing in. It’s savage, it’s painful, god, how it’s good. Blindly, he sees Christ speared, the blade jutting through layers of fat and muscle and flesh, wondering how it felt to take the weapon inside of him. Tozer works madly on top of him, his weight bearing down on John’s body, pressing him to the dirt-covered floor. He’s stained. They’re both stained. Sweat runs from Tozer’s forehead along his nose and drips on John’s lips; he licks it off. He wants more. 

“Open up now, I want in. Just like that,” Tozer hisses, fucking into him. John realizes his legs are spread wide and open, somehow his trousers have been kicked off into a dark corner for the rats to nest in. He’s spread like a newspaper, like a map, flat and open, begging use. He squeezes down on Tozer, sparks scattering across his crown. This is the ecstasy of the saints, he thinks, thinking of the raptures God and Christ had visited upon the faithful. What does it mean for John Irving that rapture was found not in the body of Christ but in Solomon Tozer instead?

“This is all you’re good for, yeah?” Tozer asks, hot and wet. “Being a thing for cocks to fuck?” 

He whines. He might have said yes. 

“Look at you, look at your pretty little face. God, what I could do with you. Lot of dicks on this ship need servicing, you know, I should tie you up and let each of them take a turn on you.” 

He moans, keening into his wretched fist. It’s a brutal, hot image; lashed to the mast like Odysseus, finally put to the good use he’s strived so hard against. His body begs him for it, his mortified orgasm drawing closer, tense and strangled. Tozer’s hairy belly rubs against his prick and he can’t tell if it’s pleasure or pain, perhaps a strange, violent mixture of both, viciously begging relief. 

“Yeah, you like this. Knew you’d like this, you’ve been wanting it all this time, haven’t you? Needing it so bad. I’ve got you, I’ll fuck you blind anytime you want. You wanna kiss me, baby? Do it.” 

He doesn’t know where the kiss comes from, hot and wet, teeth clashing and bones rattling. He loves how Tozer fucks with his tongue as with his prick, thrusting in the same unconscious rhythm. In kissing, he feels whole. Complete. Some kind of strange ouroboros, two men consuming each other whole. 

“God, yeah, just like that,” Tozer mutters, half into his mouth. 

John cracks a sob, hastily biting into the meat of his forearm, and comes white-hot and blinding all over their chests, Hot and good and wretched, it feels like ascension. It feels like damnation. For a split second, he sees God and all of the kingdoms of the world. His hands find their way to Tozer’s shoulders, fingernails digging into his skin, leaving dark mezzaluna bruises, and Tozer stumbles after him into his own climax, spilling hot and wet into him, where it will seep out for hours after, staining his clothes. 

When he opens his eyes, there’s no Heaven above. Just a heaving chest and a man with sweat on his brow and damp hair in his eyes, slowly catching his breath. His heart thuds and he curses himself for knowing this place existed, for coming here at all, for the knowledge that he will come here again. Over and over again.

Damnation comes easily; John Irving finds his on a dusty storeroom floor. 

  
  



End file.
